Cruel As the Grave

2

LONDON

April 1193

The sky was overcast and a damp, blustery wind had swept in from the south. The few hardy souls up and about in the predawn chill cast a wary eye skyward, knowing that spring too often carried a sting in its tail. Drawing his mantle closer, Justin shivered and yawned. He'd bribed a guard to let him out of the city before the gates opened, and for the past hour, he'd been keeping watch upon the Augustinian priory of St Bartholomew.

It was an uncomfortable vigil, made more so by the surroundings, for the priory overlooked the meadows of Smithfield. These open fields played an important role in the daily life of Londoners; the weekly horse fair was held here every Friday, and it was the site, as well, for numerous games of sport: jousting, wrestling, archery, javelin hurling. Now it lay deserted and still in the muted light, and Justin was alone with his memories. It was here that he had confronted a soulless killer. The trap had worked and Gilbert the Fleming had answered for his sins on a Winchester gallows. Eleanor had feared John's complicity in the murder of her messenger, relieved and grateful when Justin had been able to clear her son's name. Yet Justin doubted that there'd be any exoneration for John this time. The scent of treason was in the air.

Justin had no trouble in recognizing John's courier. A stocky, hard-faced man in his thirties, muffled in an inconspicuous dark mantle and wide-brimmed pilgrim's hat, Giles de Vitry was dressed to blend in with his fellow travelers. They were astride placid mules and sway-backed geldings, though, and he was mounted upon a spirited bay stallion who was obviously eager to run. Justin tensed as the courier rode by his hiding place, for much depended upon what de Vitry did next. If he headed for Newgate and entered into the city, that would mean he meant to sail from Dover. If he took the road west, he intended to catch a ship at Southampton. Justin had a personal preference and he smiled as de Vitry urged his stallion on past Newgate. Easing Copper out into the stream of travelers, Justin let his mount settle into a comfortable canter, keeping a discreet distance behind his quarry.

The road was very familiar by now to Justin, for since January he had ridden it no less than seven times, going back and forth between London and Winchester in his hunt for the men who'd slain the queen's messenger. In winter, the trip had taken four or five days, but travel in April would be easier and quicker. If de Vitry pushed his mount, he could reach Winchester in two or three days' time, with Southampton just twelve miles farther on. The urgency of his message would dictate his speed.

It soon became apparent to Justin that John's message was very urgent, indeed. Most travelers would start at dawn, stop for dinner in the hour before noon, rest until midafternoon, and then resume their journey until dusk. Giles de Vitry's stops were few and far in-between. Not for him a leisurely meal at a roadside inn. He ate sparingly and hastily of the food he'd packed in his saddlebag, and within a quarter hour was on his way again. Justin had expected him to stay over at Guildford, thirty miles south of London. But the courier raced the deepening shadows another ten miles, before finally halting for the night in the market town of Farnham.

Justin was not overly worried about attracting the other man's attention, for the road was well traveled and the choice of lodgings was limited. Even if de Vitry noticed him, he was not likely to read any sinister significance into their presence at the same inn. He was more concerned that de Vitry might rise before dawn and gain an insurmountable lead while he slept on, unaware. In consequence, he got very little sleep at all, dozing uneasily upon a lumpy, straw-filled pallet surrounded by snoring strangers, awakening to the dismal sound of rain splattering upon the roof shingles.

De Vitry, undeterred by the day's damp start, was on the road again at first light. Justin followed soon thereafter, grudgingly conceding that John was well served by his messenger. What was in that letter, that it would send a man out into the rain without breakfast or a decent night's sleep?

Fortunately, the rain proved to be a spring shower, and the sky cleared as they left Farnham behind. The day brightened and the road ahead beckoned. Barring some mishap — a thrown shoe, an encounter with outlaws — Justin calculated that they should reach Winchester by nightfall. But Justin had determined that de Vitry would not be continuing on to Southampton on the morrow. The reckoning would be in Winchester.

~~

Stars were floating above his head. Clouds sailed across the moon, briefly blotting out its light. The street was shadowed and silent, for curfew had rung some time ago. Justin knew the way, though, even in the dark. Keeping his stallion to a walk, he saw before him the pale outlines of the cottage. Thatched and whitewashed, it looked well tended and peaceful, and he regretted having to intrude into this secluded small Eden with yet more snakes.

He and the man he hoped to find within the cottage had a checkered history. They'd begun as enemies. Justin had initially suspected Luke de Marston of having a hand in the murder of the queen's messenger, and then of being John's spy. Eventually they'd forged a truce, tentative and wary, as they united in the search for Gilbert the Fleming. Justin could think of no better ally in his looming confrontation with Giles de Vitry than Luke, Hampshire's under-sheriff.

After hitching Copper to a tree, he approached the cottage. Even before he could knock, the barking began, deep and booming, followed by an equally loud burst of sleepy cursing. Justin grinned; Luke was home. Motivated by a sense of mischief, he pounded mercilessly on the door until it opened a crack, revealing a thick thatch of tousled fair hair and a glaring green eye.

"What do you — Holy God!" Opening the door wider, Luke grabbed Justin by the arm and pulled him inside. "What are you doing here, de Quincy? I thought you were supposed to be in London, spying and lurking or whatever it is you do for the queen."

Justin, occupied for the moment in fending off the enthusiastic welcome of a gigantic black mastiff named Jezebel, let the gibe go unanswered. He didn't blame Luke for being testy. What man, after all, would want to be pulled out of Aldith Talbot's bed?

"Justin?" The voice sounded drowsy, delighted, and sultry. Aldith poked her magnificent auburn head through the bed hangings, her face lighting up in a smile that no man would soon forget. "Wait there," she directed, "whilst I dress," and disappeared behind the bed curtains.

Luke was in need of clothes, too, wearing nothing but a towel hastily snatched up and strategically draped. Fixing Justin with an accusatory gaze, he said, "What are my chances of getting back to bed tonight?"

"Not very good," Justin admitted, and Luke swore, then retreated behind the bed to pull on his discarded tunic and chausses, returning to prowl the chamber in search of his boots, all the while grumbling about a sheriff's lot and how rarely he got to pass a full night in his own bed. Justin paid his harangue no heed, for the deputy's irascibility was more posturing than genuine ill will. Sitting down wearily upon the settle, he closed his eyes.

"Got it," Luke said triumphantly, holding up a boot. "I do hope you have a damned good reason, de Quincy, for making me put these back on."

Justin opened his eyes. "I followed one of John's men from London. He is bearing a message I must see. Can you help me?"

"I assume there is more to this than satisfying your curiosity," Luke said wryly. "Do you know where this messenger is or must we scour the city for him?"

"I trailed him to a bawdy house in Cock's Lane, and since he told their groom to bed down his horse in their stables, it is safe to assume he plans to spend the night there."

Luke had to concede his reasoning. "There are several bawdy houses in Cock's Lane. Can I trust you to find your way back to the right one?"

Justin took no offense at the sarcasm. "Well, there are worse fates than searching one bawdy house after another," he joked, and at once regretted it, for Aldith had emerged in time to hear. She was too well mannered to berate a guest in her home, but the look on her expressive face left no doubt that she was not pleased at the prospect of her lover's taking a tour of the town's brothels. Justin was sorry to cause her any distress, for she was not only good-hearted, but one of the most desirable women he'd ever met. "I know the house," he assured her hastily, "and we'll be able to pluck de Vitry from his soft nest and haul him off to the castle in no time at all."

Aldith's smile was stilted. "I'll wait up for you, Luke," she said pointedly.

Luke shrugged. "Lock the door after us," he instructed Aldith, grazing her cheek with a kiss too casual to give her much reassurance. "Let's go, de Quincy."

Justin bade Aldith farewell and followed Luke out into the night. Although neither man would have admitted it, they were pleased to be working together again, sharing a familiar excitement, one common to hunters everywhere. The chase was on.

~~

Prostitution was illegal as well as immoral, much deplored by the Church but tacitly tolerated by city officials as a necessary evil. The fact that brothels were often owned by respected citizens, even churchmen, made it all the more difficult for the law to close them down. The bawdy houses of Winchester could not compare in size or scope to the more infamous brothels of Londonthe Southwark stews. The one chosen by Giles de Vitry was a two-storey wooden structure, gaudy even in the moonlight, for it had been painted a garish shade of red. Light gleamed through the chinks in the shutters and the door was opened at once by a painfully thin maidservant with huge hollow eyes and a fading bruise upon her cheek. As soon as they were ushered inside, a matronly woman in her forties came bustling over, ready to bid them welcome. Justin guessed correctly that this was the bawd. Her smile faltered as Luke stepped within the glow cast by a smoking rushlight.

"Master de Marston, this is a surprise," she said, her voice flat and toneless. "Surely the neighbors have not been complaining about the noise again? I can assure you that we have taken your warnings to heart. You'll find no drunkards or troublemakers here. We'll take no man's money unless he is sober, civil, and old enough to know what he's about."

Luke played the game, saying blandly, "It gratifies me to hear that, Emma. My life would be much easier if only the other bawds were so law abiding and prudent. I was just telling Master de Quincy here that we could rely upon your discretion and expect your full cooperation."

Emma's eyes narrowed to the merest slits, apprehensive and suspicious. "I will do what I can," she said cautiously. "If a complaint has not brought you here, what then? I swear by the Rood that all of my girls are free of the pox, and I hire no wayward wives or runaway servants or — "

Luke cut her off before she could insist that her whores were as fresh as country lasses newly fallen from grace. As an undersheriff, he knew better than most men the miseries of that precarious profession. "We are seeking a man," he said, "who arrived as curfew was being rung. He is not overly tall, with a scar on his cheek. Tell us where to find him and I'll not look for other laws broken or bent."

Her relief was palpable that they'd come for a customer; men were expendable, her whores harder to replace. "A man with a scar…" She pretended to ponder it, then nodded. "The man who took Arlette for the entire night is likely the one you want."

"Where?"

"Above-stairs. The inner chamber is Arlette's," she said, and stepped aside hastily as they brushed past her. The common room was almost deserted. By the hearth a drunk nodded blearily into his wine cup, and in the corner a ruddy, stout man held a half-dressed woman on his lap. He gave a startled yelp as they burst in, beginning to rise and inadvertently dumping the girl into the floor rushes. By then they were already through, plunging into the darkened stairwell, loosening their swords in their scabbards. They were at the top of the stairs when they heard a woman scream.

Luke was in the lead. Swearing, he flung himself at the door and shoved it open. The chamber was small and cramped, holding only a stool, a basin, and a bed. A couple was entangled in the sheets, gaping up at these intruders. But the man was dark haired and unscarred. Ignoring his sputtering protest, Luke hit the inner door with his shoulder. It gave way at once, catapulting him inside.

This room was even shabbier than the first one, almost all of its space taken up by a rumpled bed. A buxom redhead was kneeling in the middle of it, oblivious or uncaring of her nudity. "He went out the window," she cried, "without paying, curse him! And when I tried to stop him, the whoreson struck me!"

Luke's headlong rush into the room had sent him stumbling into the bed, nearly tumbling down on top of the indignant Arlette. Justin swerved around him and lunged for the window. He was not so reckless as to jump, though, lowering himself as he clung to the sill and then dropping the remaining four or five feet to the ground.

He landed on his feet like a cat. His eyes had to adjust again to the darkness, and at first he could see nothing. He thought he was in the courtyard behind the brothel, but he could not yet be sure, for clouds hid the moon. He stood very still, waiting for the shadows to reveal their secrets, and then heard the soft, ragged inhalation of breath. As he turned toward the sound, a gleam of starlight bounced off the blade of a thrusting dagger. If he'd not spun around, it might have found his heart. As it was, it slashed through the folds of his mantle with just inches to spare. The man had put the full weight of his body behind that lethal lunge and before he could recover his balance, Justin sent his fist thudding into his belly. Gasping, the attacker reeled backward, and Justin fumbled for his sword. As it cleared its scabbard, a dark form came plummeting from the overhead window, crashing into Justin's assailant and knocking him to his knees.

The quarry was momentarily stunned by the impact, giving Justin the time he needed to level his sword at that heaving chest. "You so much as blink and you're dead." As threats went, it was simple and effective; the man lay perfectly still as Justin kicked aside the dropped dagger. Luke had regained his feet, was struggling now to regain control of his breathing.

Lowering his sword until it was almost touching his captive's windpipe, Justin glanced swiftly toward the deputy. "Well done, Luke!" he said admiringly. "However did you see to land on him like that? I was half-blinded when I first went through the window!"

"I was lucky," Luke panted, coming forward to peer down at his victim. "Is this the one?"

Justin nodded. "Meet Giles de Vitry." But something about Luke's modest response did not ring true; he'd never known the deputy to shrug off praise before. As a sudden shimmer of moonlight brightened the courtyard, he studied the other man's face, and then he grinned. "Admit it, you did not plunge from that window with a hawk's unerring precision. You lost your grip and just happened to fall on him, didn't you?"

Luke regarded him impassively. "Can you prove it?" he said at last, and they both laughed. Giles de Vitry chose that moment to make an ill-considered escape attempt. He squirmed sideways, only to freeze again when the point of Justin's sword pricked the skin of his throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

"You're not one for listening, are you?" he said reprovingly, much to Luke's amusement.

"You sound like a tutor reprimanding an unruly student, de Quincy! If we bring him back inside, we'll have to protect him from Arlette. Let's take him into the stables for our talk." Drawing his sword, Luke prodded their prisoner to his feet. "You're in the mood for a talk, aren't you, de Vitry? Reasonable men always prefer talking to the alternative."

De Vitry gave Luke as venomous a look as Justin had ever seen. He did not protest, though, wisely allowing them to shove him across the courtyard without resistance. A wide-eyed groom was cowering in the stables, with no intention of investigating the mayhem occurring outside. When the combatants invaded his refuge, he bolted out the back, leaving them alone with several horses and a spitting calico cat. Luke found a length of rope, trussed up de Vitry, and pushed him down upon a bale of hay. Taking the groom's lantern from its wall hook, he said, "He is all yours, de Quincy."

De Vitry flinched as Justin unsheathed his dagger. Ignoring the other man's recoil, Justin applied his blade to the neck of de Vitry's tunic. The material tore easily, revealing a leather pouch suspended upon a braided cord. Its contents were a disappointment: money, no letter. Luke had found de Vitry's saddlebags, stored with his gear in the tack room, and Justin searched them next, although without expectation of success; if the missing message had been concealed in the saddlebags, de Vitry would not have left them unguarded out in the stables. When his pessimism proved well founded, he came back to the courier, stood gazing down at him thoughtfully.

"Now what?" Luke was appraising their prisoner, too, green eyes speculative enough to give de Vitry a chill. "You think he memorized the message?"

Justin considered the possibility, then shook his head. "Not likely. If the message says what I think it does, its recipient would need proof that it indeed came from John."

At the mention of John's name, de Vitry's head came up sharply. Recovering some of his confidence, he said hoarsely, "You've got my money. What else do you want from me?

"

Luke glanced toward Justin. "I hate it when they insult my intelligence. You're not being robbed, hellspawn. You're under arrest… as you well know."

"You're the law?" De Vitry strove to sound shocked. "God's Truth, I thought you were bandits!"

"Do not stop now," Luke said encouragingly. "I am waiting with bated breath for the rest of your story, eager to hear why you chose to jump out of a window in the middle of the night, only half dressed in the bargain. Your explanation ought to be riveting."

De Vitry ran his tongue over dry lips. "I… I was seeking to avoid paying the whore."

Luke shook his head in disgust. "So to save yourself a halfpenny, you'd leave a valuable sword behind and risk breaking your neck. I can see this will be a long night. Shall we take him back to the castle, de Quincy?"

"No," Justin said, "not yet." He'd been studying the courier, his eyes taking in the man's dishevelment as he reconstructed those frantic moments in Arlette's chamber. De Vitry had been alerted to danger, hearing them on the stairs. He'd hastily snatched up his tunic and mantle and gone out the window, forced to abandon his chausses, braies, boots, and even his sword. Doubtless he'd have come back for them later, if he'd been able to evade pursuit. "Do you know what I find most puzzling, Luke? His choices. It makes sense to grab for a dagger, especially for one so quick with a blade. He already had the money around his neck. I can see, too, why he'd pull on his runic ere he bolted. A man running mother-naked through the streets would find that hard to explain, after all. But then he took his mantle. Does that seem as odd to you as it does to me?"

De Vitry had stiffened noticeably. Luke also saw where Justin was going with this and he smiled suddenly. "Indeed it does. Our lad here has peculiar priorities. If it were me, I'd have taken enough time to retrieve my sword, mayhap even tossed my boots out the window, too. But he's willing to go out into the night barefooted and bare-assed rather than give up a quite ordinary brown mantle. Are you that susceptible to the cold, de Vitry? Did you forget it was April, not December?"

De Vitry did not react to the deputy's mockery, his eyes focused unblinkingly upon Justin. When the younger man reached for the mantle, he seemed about to resist, then realized the futility of it and slumped back as Justin claimed his prize. Carrying it over to the lantern, he began a thorough inspection, almost at once straightened up with a triumphant smile.

"There is something stitched into the hood." Carefully splitting the seams to reveal a tightly rolled sheet of parchment, he held it up toward the light.

His sudden intake of breath told Luke that it was even worse than he'd expected.

"What is it, de Quincy? Do not keep me in suspense, man!"

Justin slowly lowered the parchment. "According to this letter, a French fleet is assembling at Wissant, making ready to invade England."

That was more than Luke had bargained for, either. "May I see that?" He held out his hand and Justin passed him the letter. "Christ Jesus, John is conniving with the Count of Flanders and the French king, too! You've served the queen well this night, for certes, de Quincy."

"We both have," Justin said, reclaiming the letter to read it again, half hoping that he'd mistaken what was written in John's own hand, for who would trust such an incendiary message to a scribe. "What if this man had gotten through? We had God on our side, Luke," he said soberly, and then spun around when Giles de Vitry laughed.

"And John has the Devil," he jeered. "I was not the only messenger, you see." He stared at them, his eyes agleam with hatred and bitter triumph. "John sent another man by way of Dover. By now he ought to be well on his way to the French king."